The Wanderer
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: In a ruined land, the Wanderer encountered Death. And he was not afraid.


**The Wanderer**

The Wanderer was dying. And Death watched on.

Death could wait, for death would come to all, soon or late. Death would strike in day and night, and no amount of rage against dying light would stem his advance.

But Death could visit the dying all the same. So it was that Death appeared to the Wanderer. The man was dying of thirst, his breath as dry as the desert sands that surrounded him. His eyes as wide as the cloudless sky. And so it was, that Death spoke.

"Do you know me?" Death asked.

"Yes, I do," the Wanderer answered. "But not by name."

"And how is that?" Death asked, intrigued. "All know me by name of Death."

"Aye," answered the Wanderer. "I know of you – I know you in the ruins of forgotten kings. I know you in the fields of this land, where no amount of blood shed has caused grass to grow. I know you as part of the world, the function by which life can exist. For what is life, but predation? What is life, but our gift from Death?" He sighed. "But I do not know you. I have only seen your mark."

And this pleased Death, for Death was prideful. Death had seen the ruin of this land, the end of its peoples. How warriors had done his work for him, as the sands of time had defeated civilization's attempt to seize eternity.

"But I do not fear you," the Wanderer whispered.

And Death was not pleased, his pride, once stroked, now wounded. How could Death take pride in not being feared?

"How is this your nature?" Death asked. "How do you not fear me?"

"I have seen your mark, and am not afraid."

"But you feel me, do you not?" Death asked. "Your throat runs dry, and your stomach is empty. The sun beats down upon darkened skin, and moonlight will offer no respite once the sun slumbers."

"I know. I have borne these burdens."

"There are those who serve me, even if they do not know it. The buzzard will want your meat. Grubs will take what is left. Your own kind your belongings, and the desert sands will bury your bones. I am everywhere."

"I know. And I am not afraid."

And thus Death frowned, for the Wanderer spoke truly. Who in this world did not fear him, he wondered. Who did not rage against the dying light? Who did not weep and curse when he took what was his from those who bore his gift of life?

"I am ready," the Wanderer spoke.

And Death hesitated, for again, the Wanderer had spoken the truth.

"I am ready," the Wanderer repeated.

And Death reached out, to take him. To take him from blazing sun, into a night without stars or moon. Reached out, a bony hand bleached by time, under scorching sun…

And he held back. The hand was returned to darkness. The sun still shone. And the Wanderer lived.

"I shall not take you," Death said. "Not until you fear me."

"But I do fear you," the Wanderer rasped. "I am ready."

"You speak both truths and lies, but they are not as one," Death said. He reached into his robes, drawing out a vial of clear liquid. "Drink this, and live. Live, so that you may love your life. Live, so that you may see more of the world of the living. Live, so that when we meet again, you shall fear me. So that you shall cling to life as a babe to his mother's teat, so that I may snatch you away, and hear the wails of the living."

"I shall drink," the Wanderer said. And he did so, the liquid running down his throat like a stream. Gulping and slurping, like a dying animal. Before long, life had been returned to him. The vial was returned, and Death stood there. Knowing that he had given the Wanderer the gift of life. And the curse of fear, in knowing that life must end.

"And so I say farewell," the Wanderer said. And he continued into the desert. Across the sands.

"Farewell, Wanderer," said Death. "We shall meet again."

"Wanderer," said the man. He paused. He stopped, his feet in the sand. Like a statue of both past and present. Paused, and began to laugh.

And Death was puzzled.

"I am not the Wanderer," said the man whom Death had saved. He turned his gaze to meet Death's. "I am the Traveller."

And Death gripped his scythe, even knowing that there was no wheat to cut.

"I travel," the one Death had called Wanderer said. "I know where I am headed. I know that one day, I shall travel from this world into the hereafter. I shall continue my journey. I shall meet you again, my friend, and thank you for your gift."

And Death's eyes blazed with a light fiercer than any sun. He had let himself be deceived. In his pride, he had let himself be fooled. He raged against the light, his night paling against its glow.

"But know this," said the Traveller. "I journey. I will travel under light of sun and moon. I will journey across desert and mountain. I will see all that I am able." He smiled the smile of one who was not afraid. "And I will never fear you."

And thus the Traveller disappeared into the sands. And so to, into memory, did Death fade.


End file.
